Uh, spellchecked. I should probably title this?
Notes: Yeah, no idea.
Alphas, in the end, are stupid for sex; omegas are sex. History bears this out in stunning detail, and that was when it was just humans involved. Sure, war is terrible, but when the alpha in question can rip up reality and put it together again in a way an omega would like, that changes the playing field by an order of magnitude.
When that alpha is kind of a former proto-god, with who the fuck knows what leftovers might be stuck in his still-maybe-sometimes-crazy head--Dean's not saying he's scared for himself, because he's not, alphas are stupid for sex and for them, an omega's the only place to get it. But he's kind of worried about the next time someone gets his order wrong because the world's shitty but it's kind of all they've got here.
Sam's right, he knows that; he's gotta pay attention, because if he doesn't know what he's doing, Cas won't either, and they've got a week left. What bothers him is remembering when Sam challenged and Cas responded, that split second between when he lifted his hand and Dean stopped him--why he stopped him.
Sam's his brother and he'd never let anyone hurt Sam, but that doesn't change that he liked it.
"Okay, okay, wait," Dean says, pacing the motel room, because denial never ends well, but that's then and this is now, "let's test this. Be sure."
He's picking up alarm Sam-ward, but whatever; he's gotta be sure.
"Don't worry," Dean tells him, and is rewarded by a look of terror on Sam's face. "I got an idea."
This isn't, it must be said, a good idea. Dean knows this, but it's not like that's ever stopped him before.
This would be embarrassing if it wasn't so surreal; of all the things Dean's never thought to hope never happened, it's talking about his upcoming sex life with his brother and his--and Cas.
"And that," Sam says, in the voice of Alpha Who Knows All About Being an Alpha, "is what's going on."
Cas looks between them, like he's still not sure they're serious, and for some reason, that's really starting to piss Dean off.
"I don't think that's possible." Like 'possible' has any meaning with Winchester odds, and Cas, the poor fuck, has been around them long enough to be a Winchester by sheer proximity. That shit spreads, no lie; ask everyone that's ever met them. "I'm not human," for the prize in Stating the Goddamn Obvious, Castiel, Angel of the Goddamn Lord, "and I'm not subject to your--biological imperatives."
Dean rolls his eyes, tamping down the growing anger with an effort. "You'd think, right? Look--"
"If you have objections to my assistance in making your life more comfortable," Cas interrupts, picking up 'condescending' like it's a vocal lifestyle choice, "then simply say so."
"Maybe try not to blow up my brother because you thought he was challenging you for free access to my ass!" Dean snaps back, and Cas looks at him like maybe he's reconsidering a good Winchester smiting with a different brother.
"Dean!" Sam glares at him, You're Not Being Helpful Keeping The World's Diners Safe From Epically Powered Alphas, with a glance at Cas, Sorry My Brother Is Like This, Ignore Him, which no, and may be the entire problem here. "What you're feeling is perfectly normal," he continues earnestly, and damned if he doesn't add a Dude, Omegas, What Can You Do? in Cas's direction. "We should talk about your options."
Before Dean can respond to that bullshit--and possibly shove Sam off that goddamn chair--Cas shakes his head, looking vaguely amused. "There must be another explanation. I'm not aware of any particular desire to engage in sexual intercourse with Dean."
So that's how he wants to play this: fine.
Tipping his head back, Dean reflects the room is a little too warm, and watches Cas's eyes widen as the air conditioner comes on with a triumphant purr on who wins a competition between 'Winchester' and 'Impossible': Winchester's winning by a mile, in case anyone in the room is curious, Cas.
"You were saying?"
Biology, Yeah, You're Really Fucking Subject to It, Let Me Show You How. Which actually, not a bad idea, come to think.
"Yes, that is…." Cas trails off, gaze lingering on Dean a split-second too long. It's there and gone so fast he's still catching his breath, but he knows it and something flickers on, like a single match flaring awake in a darkened room.
Dean drops his chair back onto all four legs. "Sam," he says, still staring at Cas. "Ten minutes."
Beside him, Sam tenses; he's still not on board with the plan, which is bullshit, because it's a great plan (it really is, really). "You sure--"
"Yeah." After a moment, he hears Sam get up and then the sound of the motel door shutting. "Cas--"
"Why did you send Sam away?" Cas asks with a trace of annoyance, and he doesn't think he's imagining the edge of impatience with this human biology thing that's taking up too much of his valuable time. "If there's nothing else…."
Yeah, he's over the explaining it nicely thing; time to get this show on the road.
Dean slouches into his chair, letting the first tendrils of anticipation wash over him, focusing on Cas. This time, though, he doesn't just look; he thinks about what he's looking at, the entire package: ridiculous hair and pink mouth, yeah, drag of that stubble on his thighs, opening up for those long fingers flexing at his side, a human body with blue eyes that are anything but.
It's like hitting the gas, zero to sixty in five seconds or less; Dean smiles, casually spreading his legs, and watches in satisfaction as Cas goes still. Omegas, What Can You Do: not a lot, and Cas likes learning about humans, so maybe it's about time he learned that.
"Got your attention now?" He tips his head toward the bed as he lazily gets to his feet. "Sit down, Cas."
Taking a step back, Cas drops on the edge of the bed like a marionette with all his strings cut, and Jesus, he can feel it now, just never this early as it sluggishly begins to awaken in a rush of blood, everything brighter, better, humming interest, intent, focusing on Cas so fast even Dean's surprised, but that just makes it easier.
Tugging the buttons loose on his overshirt, he drops the worn flannel on the floor behind him like a shed skin, watching the way Cas's eyes dart between his mouth, his chest, his hips, his cock--there we go, he could stop here, this is sure as you can get, but why?--and resting a hand on Cas's shoulder, he feels the shudder run through him just before he braces a knee on the bed and kneels over Cas's lap.
"This is why," Dean says, sucking in a breath when Cas's hands close over his hips, fingers like bands of steel digging straight down into solid bone--Jesus, he's strong, good--and fights to keep still. "Don't fuck with Sam, okay? He's not a rival, you get that?"
Cas licks his lips shiny-wet, slick, that's all his, just for him, and Dean could do so goddamn much with that pretty mouth.
"Say 'yes', Cas," Dean says, because leveling a diner is one thing, but the Sam thing they gotta deal with now.
"I won't hurt Sam," Cas breathes, staring up at him like he's the only thing in the entire goddamn world. The rush is fucking amazing, like a hit of ecstasy; he's got an angel under him who could destroy the world (and almost conquered it once upon a time; think about that) chained by nothing more than a touch of his hand. Fingers flex helplessly against his hips, and he's gonna have bruises by the time he goes to bed tonight, purpling streaks like bars across his skin and riding just above the waist of his jeans that he'll feel every time he moves.
"Good," Dean manages to say as he curves a hand over Cas's jaw in reward, the scrape of stubble against his palm burning across his skin in a flare of heady satisfaction: six days left, he's fine, no reason not to stop quite yet. "Want it?"
Alphas, in the end, are stupid for sex; omegas are sex, but Dean's never been one of those omegas who used it, go out in the street, a bar, a club, felt the room open up and bottom out for him. The snap of attention that changes a room of regular men and women into alphas looking at the only thing they can't help but want, and an omega smiling back who's the only one who can give it to 'em.
It's a dick move, is what he always thought; he never saw the attraction of bringing a crowd to their knees for him just because he could, but he's reconsidering that line of thought.
Right this moment, in this bed, there's someone he'd like to see do just that.
Dean tips Cas's head up further, running his thumb over the parted lips, catching his breath at the brush of Cas's tongue against the tip. "Come and get it."
It's like this.
Dean's never gone for talking about scent like it's fucking poetry and a life-changing event in progress; there's good, there's bad, and he fucks the first and avoids the second (or shoots them, as the case might be). It's biology, they're told, pheromones and chemicals and compatibility, and Dean slept through half the class because they couldn't tell him anything he didn't already find out behind the football bleachers during lunch.
He knows what he likes when he smells it, what he doesn't, and he's never thought any farther, because wildflowers and vanilla and puppies playing is soap opera bullshit. When it's good, when it's sex, he likes it because it makes it better, and when it's over, he's done.
It's not poetry, but as it turns out, that's the only thing he was right about.
In the back of his mind, he can hear Sam telling him it won't be like betas or other omegas, and he thought he got it, but Jesus Christ, he just didn't know.
Stretched out on his back with Cas above him, pinning his wrists above his head and hungrily licking into his mouth, he breathes in the scent on Cas's skin, tastes it in his mouth, feels it being ground into him everywhere they touch, and forgets everything else. It's ozone, the electric crackle of lightning across an empty sky; the carbon-burn of a forest fire; an avalanche rolling down a mountain the size of planet; a tornado, a solar flare, the molten heart of a living star; sharp metal and clean snow and fresh blood and gunpowder; a long hunt running on nothing but adrenaline and a good fight, and he's been chasing this all his goddamn life.
"Cas." Wrapping a leg around Cas's waist, he tries to get him closer, get more of it, get it all over him. Cas growls low in his throat, biting his lip before pulling back with a gasp, a thin layer of superheated air between them, and the part of Dean's that not desperate to get him back likes how Cas looks right now, disheveled and flushed, but not nearly desperate enough.
Shoving a heel into his back, Dean nearly comes off the bed when Cas's cock shoves right up against his ass--finally, Jesus, and he's already getting wet for it--and Cas goes still, sucking in desperate gasps of air gone thick and heavy, blue eyes glazing over under the double hit of his own arousal and Dean's, too.
"Yeah, just like that," he croons, rocking into Cas's cock, already hard for him, chasing the burst of euphoria at the helpless thrust of his hips, God, welcome to biology's fucking imperative for the next six days. "That what you want, Cas?"
"I want--" Cas sounds wrecked, kissing him frantically, wet and so hungry, but that's not enough; Dean wants him starving. "Dean--Dean, I don't--I don't know--"
"Yeah, you do." He does, Dean can feel it; he just doesn't know it yet. Licking his lips, he shivers at the way Cas watches the motion, blue eyes fixed, and if Dean could get off at all right now, just seeing that would do the trick just fine. "You're--yeah, you're doing just fine."
"Dean." Shifting his grip on Dean's wrists to one hand, fingers trailing down his arm in a frantic tease against his skin before curving under his jaw. Dean doesn't even have to think about it, tipping his head back and stretching out his throat long and open, offering up all the unmarked skin anyone could want, and Cas takes it, teeth sinking into the base of his throat.
"Yeah, that," he breathes, the shock of pain spiraling into desire, but it's not enough, not yet. Cas tenses in barely leashed frustration, growling again because he feels it, too, more, he's just not sure what, but he's almost there, he'll find out. Dean closes his eyes as Cas licks over his pulse uncertainly before he fits his teeth back over the first bite, stilling at the heady scent of new blood before the chemical dump knocks him breathless, boneless with euphoria and purring satisfaction.
Freeing his wrists, Cas mouths every inch of skin he can reach, drugging himself on Dean's scent and taste, and stretching lazily, Dean drapes an arm across his back, enjoying the burn low in his belly, the slow, languorous build that's just how it starts, wallowing in the focused attentions of an alpha's single-minded devotion. He could get used to this; why the hell did he avoid it before?
"Come here," he murmurs, threading his fingers through Cas's hair and obediently opening to the possessive slide of his tongue, moaning at another rush when he tastes himself in Cas's mouth. This part's new, and hazily, Dean wonders how he missed it before, whining in annoyance when Cas pulls back and changing to approval at the heat of his mouth along his jaw, a lingering kiss sucked just below his ear, the words of Cas's native tongue pressed into his skin in breaths of sound, like he wants to brand them into him. God, six days is gonna be forever….
A curl of something not endorphin overload penetrates enough for Dean to become aware the bed's doubled (tripled?) in size, cradling his body like it was made just for him, the vague smell of myrrh and cheeseburgers drowned beneath the heavy weight of their combining scents--Jesus, he thinks distractedly, the entire goddamn motel's picking this up; no one's sleeping tonight--and from an enormous distance, he thinks he hears a really annoying sound coming from the doorway and wow, he bets it would stop for a good smiting and hey, Cas should get on that.
"It's your brother," Cas murmurs, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth, and Dean almost loses his train of thought before the sense of the words penetrate: the door, Sam, handling this, motel, knocking, Sam is right outside the goddamn door.
He almost got Sam smited for annoying him; that's probably not a good sign of things to come.
Reluctantly shoving Cas up--and leaving his hand against his chest to soothe the flare of irritation Cas-ward--Dean tries to clear his head enough to think. With his other hand, he traces the shape of Cas's teeth in his skin, and a shot of adrenaline slams through him hard enough to make him dizzy, because oh God, he has--no they have six days left and fuck his life.
"Fuck." As if to emphasize how much this went off course, there's another round of frantic knocking, and Dean squints at the place he's pretty sure there was once a door. Huh. "Cas--"
Cas's gaze on the same stretch of door-less wall isn't reassuring. "I don't remember doing that."
"No problem. It happens." Thank God they got that don't kill Sammy thing out of the way first, though or this could've been really awkward. No reason to make what happens next any weirder with a resurrection thrown into the mix.
Dropping his hand, he rubs his face, moving the several feet required to get to the edge of the bed--how the fuck big is this bed anyway?--and tries not to gasp at the hot drag against his ass, little sparks of arousal winding up and down each nerve. Fuck hormones: no one in a mile of him is gonna be sleeping tonight.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Dean nods and braces for impact. "Okay, let him in."
"Dean--ack!" is all he hears before the door appears and politely opens, revealing a glimpse of a startled Sam, limbs flailing wildly before he tumbles ungracefully to the floor. That's not funny, Dean firmly reminds himself in slowly growing, terrified hysteria, but oh God, it kind of is. Turning over, Sam glares up at them, and in morbid fascination, Dean watches outrage melt into concern before bottoming out at Oh God, You Didn't, Did You?, which is stupid, because it's kind of obvious he definitely did. "Dean?"
"I'm sure now," Dean tells him hopefully, because well, he is.
Sam stares back like he can't believe Dean's even trying that.
"Look," he says, only belatedly aware he made a miscalculation when Cas's scent changes, the pleasant devotion dissolving rapidly without the buffer of physical contact. The acidic strain of disbelief and confusion is bad enough, but the fear comes out of nowhere, hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Cas, what--"
"Cas," Sam says, getting to his feet and looking between them worriedly, "it's okay. Calm down. This is perfectly normal. Let's just talk about it, okay?"
The fear ratchets up another notch, soured with anger and unhappiness like a knife shoved into Dean's guts and twisted, and maybe, just maybe, Sam was onto something about being sure about what he was doing. The one thing he's sure of is that he doesn't want Cas to leave.
"No!" Cas says savagely, blue eyes snapping to Dean in fury, and before Dean can think to just lunge the ten or so feet between them--really, this bed is ridiculous, what the hell--there's nothing but the sound of panic-stricken wings filling the room and he's gone.
Dean stares at the empty space where he was, fighting down the unexpected shock of anger and disbelief that Cas would do that to him--what the fuck?--when he realizes Sam's calling his name with an entire lifetime's worth of disappointment and wondering why he's like this.
"So that went well," Sam says, eyes narrowing on his neck accusingly. "Now what?"
Good question, but luckily, there's an obvious answer. "I need a shower," he answers, sliding off the bed and just barely controlling the groan, heat sliding honey-slow up his spine and still building. Also, a change of clothes. "We'll try again when he gets back."
Sam pauses, anger draining away and studying him intently. "You think he will?"
"Come back?" Dean grabs his duffle from the floor on his way to the bathroom and the sweet relief of an hour under cold water. There's gonna be a lot of that in his future, he can already tell. "Yeah, he will."
This wasn't a good idea, fine.
"Could be worse," Sam offers from the toilet, a world of sympathy and understanding in his voice, which is great, but Dean's stretched full-length under near-frozen water that's turning the bathroom into a steam bath, so understanding isn't cutting it. "I mean--"
"Don't say it!" Dean shouts, spitting out a mouthful of water. Sam's near-vibrating with the need to be comforting and supportive, and Dean gives it five minutes before instinct beats self-preservation and he offers extended hugging. The things you deal with when your brother is an alpha. "It's--Sammy?"
"Yeah?" The shower curtain jerks back enough so Sam can settle on the floor beside the tub, looking so horribly torn that Dean sighs, sitting up enough to lean against the cool plastic side and submits to being petted because sometimes sacrifices must be made, and oh, that kind of feels good.
"Want me to clear the room of weapons?" he asks sympathetically, dragging his fingers through Dean's wet hair, patiently working through the sweat-and-ice water tangles. Closing his eyes, Dean tries and fails to believe that's not gonna be necessary.
"Yeah," he sighs through a haze of steam. What he wouldn't give for a beer right now. "Sam--"
Abruptly, Sam is holding a bottle, and it says something about their lives that it doesn't even freak him out. "This must be for you."
Dean stares at it for a moment and wishes he didn't feel better, even if it's a reminder Cas, unlike Dean, probably can't be disarmed for the greater safety of everyone around him. "Give it here."
"So I should talk to him," Sam says carefully as Dean takes a drink of--label uncertain, is this even a human language?--truly spectacular beer. Then, slowly, like he's testing the idea, "I want to talk to him."
Dean tips his head back in surprise: oh. "You do."
"Yeah." Leaning his head against the wall, Sam frowns uncertainly, fussing with Dean's hair for a moment. "That okay with you?"
Throat tight, Dean takes another drink; if Sam wants to talk to him…. "He might not come back."
"I'm pretty sure he will," Sam answers, looking at him. "So?"
Dean shrugs and pretends really hard he doesn't care. "Go for it." Extending the bottle to Sam, he asks, "Can you read this?"
Sam squints at the label for a minute, eyebrows jumping, then taps the bottle with a fingernail. "I think this is diamond."
"Huh." Wiping away the condescension from his alien diamond beer bottle, Dean thinks fondly that Cas is still crazy, and yeah this could be worse. "Cool."
There's this, at least: sure, he's just unleashed a deeply sexually frustrated angel with a sketchy past when it comes to problem solving on the world, but he also has subarctic-capable air conditioning in a motel that does, in fact, charge by the hour, so on balance, he could being doing a lot worse (the world, not so much: he'll give a shit in six days). Shifting another foot over on the bed--how the hell it still fits within the same amount of space as the former twin is a mystery he gives no fucks about solving--Dean tries and fails to believe he will ever know the meaning of the word 'cold' again as he sweats his way through a plush comforter and sheets so soft he's pretty sure they're actually made out of air (possibly literally, this is Cas).
He never realized arousal could be like dying, except no actual hope of death.
Sam, decamped to a room that isn't working on a local ice age, is sleeping the sleep of the just and blood related, unlike possibly half the poor fuckers in this motel tonight. Dean would feel for them, he would, but any feeling would be 'homicidal' and he assumes he'd regret initiating a bloodbath just because he's starting heat. Probably. Eventually.
This is such bullshit: fuck biology and Cas, too. Cas definitely, until he can't move and can't walk and doesn't care, and oh God, there goes a whole five seconds of almost forgetting he's so turned on he can barely see straight. And also needs to move again for another couple of feet of dry bed; he wonders hopefully if anyone ever died from dehydration pre-heat due to sweating out all the water on earth. He should ask Sam about that one day.
Dean almost gasps at the unexpected loosening of tension, ratcheting everything down to something in the range of bearable and so good he'd cry if he hadn't sweated out all the available water. Taking a deep, grateful breath of a familiar scent (kind of chilly in here now), he rolls onto his side to observe the appearance of the saddest crumple of angel he's ever seen slumped against the wall.
"How long," Cas says, voice raspy, and oh Jesus, not helping here, "does this last?"
Dean fights down the urge tell Cas to fuck himself; this isn't, on balance, actually his fault. Sitting up, he glances at the flashing neon sign of the motel outside and sighs. It's gonna be a long fucking night.
"Six days--five now, I guess." After a moment, he adds reluctantly, "Thanks for cooling it down in here."
Cas shrugs, and Dean notes the lack of trenchcoat and an unprecedented three buttons open on his shirt. "Antarctica won't miss it."
That would explain the lack of humming from the air conditioner. Okay, now he's feeling kind of shitty.
"Cas…" Cas looks up, and in the uncertain splash of neon-pink and green from the window, Dean gets a glimpse of bloodshot eyes and what looks like third-day stubble and the remains of drying sweat. "Jesus, what the hell happened to you?"
Cas looks at him incredulously, what do you think? and okay, yeah, but no, that doesn't make sense.
"Can't you just--" Dean motions vaguely, not sure why this needs to be said. This is biology, and Cas's body is the only thing that qualifies. "Just--"
"--you don't know what I was going to say."
"I don't need to," Cas answers darkly. "Take as given the answer will always be no."
Okay, Dean didn't see that coming; so that's what Cas has been doing all day. "So--"
"Do you feel better?" Cas asks, something in his voice sounding hopeful the answer is 'no'. Dean's not offended. Much.
"Yeah," he answers honestly, because he does now. Enough that maybe Antarctica can get its weather back; it's kind of cold in here, come to think.
"Then my work here is done." Tipping his head back against the wall, Cas closes his eyes, looking so pathetically tired that Dean discovers new and exciting vistas of guilt. "Unless there's something else, of course--six days of this?"
"Almost five," he offers, which gets him a surly look. Goddammit. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think it'd hit you like that."
"Are you?" To his surprise, Cas sounds genuinely curious; before he can think of how to answer (the truth, he suspects, wouldn't make this better), Cas just shakes his head. "I didn't know either," he says tiredly. "Unlike you, however, I should have."
Dean starts to follow up on that, but the exhausted slump of Cas's shoulders, unhappiness pouring off of him in sour streaks, is too much to deal with. "Come here."
"What?" Several worlds of suspicion fill that one word, and yeah, can't blame him for that, but come the fuck on.
"How you feeling since you got here?" he asks instead, cocking his head when Cas's eyes narrow dangerously. "Well?"
Cas glares at him for a long moment before snapping, "Less miserable." He waits, because to be fair here, it's been a long fucking day and Cas is probably off his game, and is rewarded by the blue eyes widening in a belated grasp of the obvious before his head falls back against the wall. "Oh. That makes a horrific amount of sense."
And fuck you very much, too. "Yeah." Licking his lips, Dean forces himself not to think about how much more his life could suck, because this isn't fair. He didn't know granted, but neither did Cas, and of the two of them, Cas actually has another option.
"Or you can leave." Quickly, before he thinks too hard about it, he adds, "Just stay away until it's over and you'll be fine."
Right on schedule, Cas snarls, "I tried that--"
"I mean stay away," Dean forces himself to say, shutting his eyes and hating each and every word. "No beer, no food, no snacks, no--Antarctica and the Martian Network on demand, no check-ins, nothing. Give it a couple of days, it should--you'll be okay."
The silence is almost enough to make him panic, but he gets distracted by the faint change in Cas's scent--Jesus, he can do that, too, fuck his life--distantly aware he's started to shiver, goosebumps breaking out across his arms and reminding him of the plush warmth of the bedspread under him.
"And you?" The question is careful, measured. "Would that help?"
Death, maybe, but no one dies of heat, goddammit. "No, but it's only six days--"
"You said five."
Dean opens his eyes, annoyed, but Cas just looks back, waiting. "Five, and no, but that's how it works."
Cas frowns. "It wasn't like this for you--other times."
And there's a conversation he doesn't want to have. "Look, Cas, here's how it works. Go, stay away, come back in two weeks, it'll be over."
"Two weeks." Dean shivers (pleasantly) at the edge in Cas's voice as he does the math; fucking hormones, this is ridiculous. "You'll find someone else."
"I could find someone else anyway," he snaps and has to stop and brace himself against the (extremely satisfying) reaction he gets from Cas hearing that. "Whether you're here or not."
This time, the quality of the silence is thoughtful, and for the life of him, Dean can't make out what Cas is thinking.
"If I'm here," Cas says slowly, gravelly and dark, and Dean can feel it like Cas is stroking him, fuck, "will you? Find someone else?"
Maybe is on the tip of his tongue, but not because it's true. The same part that unfurled inside him before stretches wide awake, a sensual flare of heat and interest, wanting to watch Cas answer a challenge, a real one; it's not like it'd be a risk. This is Cas; no way will he lose, no matter what it takes for him to win. What he'd do….
Sam was right, Jesus: this is nothing like it's been before. "No."
"Good." Before Dean gets any farther than hating himself for just the thought, the bed dips to his right, breath warm against the back of his neck. He goes still, barely breathing, as Cas tugs him closer, lips skimming up the side of his throat in a barely-there touch, scenting him before settling on the bite with the tiniest growl of satisfaction.
"Feel better?" Dean asks unevenly; he can't remember the last time he did so little and could make someone that happy. Even if it's just smelling him.
Cas projects low-grade irritation with hormonal bullshit, and Dean's right there with him. "Much, yes. Do I--can I keep doing this?"
It is not hot, Dean tells himself firmly, that the way Cas says that implies destruction on a massive scale will occur should anyone try and make him stop.
Right now, Dean would definitely be ready to help. "You're good."
It occurs to him that he might actually be able to sleep now. Unsurprisingly--because yeah, he's getting used to this way too fast--the blankets and sheets obligingly slide out from under him, and it barely takes a push to curl up beneath them, warmly cocooned away from air that's taking on a literal freezing bite, like maybe Antarctica is losing more weather. The addition of another body makes it perfect, and yawning, Dean reaches back, fumbling for Cas's hip to tug him closer, a long, solid (protective) line against his back. After a moment, Cas slides an arm around his waist, sealing them together, and horrified, Dean didn't know life could actually be this perfect.
Dean tries and fails to feel annoyed by the faint smugness in Cas's voice; he's probably owed this one.
"You could give Antarctica its weather back."
"I could," Cas agrees, lips parting against the back of his neck, and Dean shivers for whole new reasons at the slow brush of tongue. "But then I wouldn't be needed to keep you warm."
That, Dean has to admit, is a damn good answer. "Good call." Then, because seriously, he's about to fall asleep, "Tomorrow, Sam wants to talk to you."
"As you wish." There's no sense of hostility; mostly, he's picking up a surprised contentment, and it makes him wonder. "Go to sleep."
Dean thinks wistfully of when Cas watching him sleep was creepy. It's a whole new (completely fucked up) world. "Yeah, okay."
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